


The Noble Gods

by Bennet_Doyeni



Series: The Lore: A Homestuck Mythos [1]
Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennet_Doyeni/pseuds/Bennet_Doyeni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by The Gods That We Once Knew by natcat5</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Noble Gods

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Gods That We Once Knew](https://archiveofourown.org/works/449083) by [natcat5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5). 



> Inspired by The Gods That We Once Knew by natcat5

While the Hero Gods gave the world meaning, shaping matter, time, light and breath, the Nobles slept. No one knows why, but the Nobles only acted when the Heroes had completed their tasks. Where the Heroes were Gods of universal constants, the Nobles were Gods of people and therefore of suffering.

There was a girl who stole darkness, the legend says, If anyone paid attention they would note similarities between her and the fallen God. Her purple just a shade lighter than the Seer’s Violet. She is shown holding out gifts for others. She is a charitable God, and a fierce protector. She is the patron of science, reason and progress rolled into one. She is shown pulling darkness like a shroud away from a light that shines to help all people.

She saved who she could, the legends say.

Although her temples are built of obsidian she is a friendly God, a God of feasting and merriment. But all the Nobles are tragic and she is no exception. The darkness that she pulls away from the flame, she takes upon herself. In the paintings there is an indescribable sadness in her eyes, a longing for the flame she brings to others.

A woman hair bleached with age but standing proud enters her temple. She stands at the foot of a statute, it shows her running, as though chased, looking over her shoulder.I tried to make your world a better place, She whispers, a tear tracing its way down her cheek. But you did better than I ever could. She is alone and no one hears her. She wraps a long purple scarf around the statue’s neck and leaves quietly.

 

 

There was a boy who rose farther than any thought possible, the legend says. The legend says that he started his journey lower than the most pitied fool on earth, but that he was healed by a cerulean fairy, a creature older than the Gods. He represents hope, his miraculous healing symbolizing the journey we all wish to take.

His hope, the legend says, could turn fiction into truth.

His power came at the wrong time, they say, although there is argument on that point. Some believe the Fairy who healed him to have good intentions, while others say that he was used, knowing the stories of the other Nobles, the second seems more likely.

He rose to his true potential before he was ready, they say, amid too much chaos. Like the Fixer he died many times, but his deaths meant nothing, they were simply opportunities for him to rise again, like the aspect he embodies. Hope rising continually from the ashes.

He is known by many names, the explorer, the rising fool, the new star, but most often he goes by Hope.

His temples radiate pure light and are adorned with the shade-like angels of Hope. A woman sits in one, gazing up at a painting of him rising from death, pitchfork still lodged in his chest. I’m sorry you inherited my problems, she says her green eyes a shade lighter than the emerald inlayed on the radiant marble. You did good.

She is crying and is ignored.

 

 

There was a girl who made life burst forth, the legend says. Sometimes she is shown wearing a tiara, sometimes not. She is sometimes shown in the browns and greens of the life that she wrought, more often though she is shown in red. The red of chains and blood, the red of oppression.

The legends say that even though she was raised by the enemies of the Gods, she fought her captors. They say that her mind was chained, that she was forced to obey the will of an evil empress who served a lord of death.

She is the maid of life who killed, they say.

She is the God of bakers and her temples are filled with confections. But she is also the God of the trapped and the imprisoned. Her temples fill with the prayers of criminals the impoverished, those trapped by marriages and by society.

A man stands in her temple, he sets down a cake with frosting blue as ice. I just wanted you to be safe, he says, I just wanted you to be happy. He sets a stirring spoon next to the cake and leaves, the brim of his hat hiding his eyes.

 

 

There was a boy who removed the shadows of his enemies, the legend says. His hair is as sharp as the point of the sword he wields. He is defined by points and edges, angular and sharp. His face is proud but sad, like all the nobles.

He is the war God, the God of complete and utter destruction. His temples burn with orange flame. They say that he had the power to destroy the souls of his enemies. He was the only one to fight when the Old Gods threatened to return to remake the world the Heroes had created. They say his blow was the first retaliation against the murders of his friends.

He is the destroyer of souls, the prince without compassion.

But his too is a sad story, before he could strike a lasting blow against the enemy his hope faded and his was the soul destroyed. In that final decisive battle, when the fate of the Nobles hung in the balance the person he counted on most failed him and he fell.

A man warms his hand in the orange flames of a temple. He places a simple watch cog on the altar at the back of the shrine. Good work, he says, we won’t forget.

 

 

An author sits at her laptop, knitting sitting under her desk. A page, blank except for a title stares back at her. A History of the Gods, it says, but she knows it is the book that she will not write, that she cannot write. She writes it anyway, it is published as fiction and quickly forgotten.

An artist sits at his drawing table. Blank panels stare back at him. You can’t go there, he tells himself, no one would believe you, it’s too personal. He shakes his head and moves on, instead drawing a knight in shining armor kneeling before a figure in princely attire. The reference is subtle and most critics believe the reference is meant to be ironic.

A baker sits alone in his empty house. A timer goes off and another cake comes out of the oven. Cakes litter the house, each of them frosted in the Baker’s blue. He knows he can’t stop, if he stops the memories will start again. He pours more flour into a bowl and mixes as the tears from his eyes fall into the batter.

A scientist sits at her workbench, her hands on a weapon she knows she must never make, blue and purple with a diamond muzzle she carefully disassembled it. She sets the parts aside and moves on to her next project, a mask. Green and skull-like it holds two oxygen cartridges she fiddles with it and it seems to expand at her touch. She sets it down as her hands begin to tremble. You were just a boy. She whispers, how did you grow up so quickly?

An archeologist stands at the head of a classroom,

a programmer sits at her desk,

a baker pulls a batch of cupcakes out of the oven,

a robotics scientist fiddles with a small cog.

/they moved forward/


End file.
